


Lips, Tongue, Teeth

by newamsterdam



Series: Bloodlines [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Alternate Universe - Wizards, Blood Drinking, Explicit Sexual Content, Light Bondage, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-29
Updated: 2014-12-29
Packaged: 2018-03-04 05:57:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2954756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/newamsterdam/pseuds/newamsterdam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Francis doesn't remember what it was like to be alive, but these moments with Arthur are as close as he'll get, and perhaps all he needs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lips, Tongue, Teeth

**Author's Note:**

> A self-indulgent and quickly-written escape from more serious and plotty things I've been writing. Basically I just wanted to focus on the choreography (??) of smut and non-intrusive world-building. We'll see if any of that worked!
> 
> Don't think too much about the biology of this world's vampires, as I've borrowed aspects from other works I've enjoyed and made up quite a few of my own. 
> 
> (This does belong to something longer and in-the-works, but stands on its own for the moment.)

Francis doesn’t quite remember what it feels like to be alive—but he imagines it could be something like this. His heart is beating too fast in his chest, and his skin is so sensitized that every movement crests like a wave over him. His fingers clench in frustration, wrists bound together behind his back. His hair is sweaty, falling over his forehead and across his face. 

Hundreds of years old, and more powerful than any one being has the right to be, and yet he is completely and utterly undone by the smirking, _young_ wizard who holds him steady with two strong hands against his hips. 

Aside from that pressure of his grip—and Francis feels as though he would have eight bruises along the small of his back, if he could bruise—Arthur sits entirely still. His legs are splayed, back leaned heavily into the armchair that’s been in his family for several generations. (Francis would know, on that count.) His straw-blond hair falls over his eyes, which glint green with inner fire. He tilts his head back, revealing the inviting expanse of his throat, and Francis digs his teeth into his own lips and hisses. 

Arthur lifts his gaze to look into Francis’ eyes, and his smirk grows just a bit wider. “No. Not yet, remember?” He swallows as he says the words, because he knows the movement will only draw Francis’ gaze back to his throat and drive him mad.

And mad Francis is, as his fangs peek out from behind perfect, shell-shaped lips as his tongue traces the dangerous point of one pronounced canine. His eyes have gone hazy with lust and desire, and touching Arthur, straddling his lap as their naked legs press against one another, Francis can smell the heady scent of his blood. He wants it, so badly. Nothing is ever enough with Arthur, not touch nor kiss nor climax nor taste. Everything leaves him wanting so much more. 

He yanks at his restraints again and feels the gentle pulse of magic within them, keeping him bound with silk. This is all one big game to Arthur, a funny joke. Let’s tie up the vampire with paper-thin cloth and see him sweat. Let’s balance him on the precipice of orgasm for impossibly long minutes, and wait to see when he’ll break of desperation. 

How Arthur has this level of control, Francis does not know. The other man is buried deep inside of him, as hard and wanting as Francis is. And yet Arthur does not move his hips, does not chase his desire as Francis longs too. Instead, he just holds Francis steady in his lap and stares up at the ceiling. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” Arthur remarks softly. He hasn’t looked back at Francis, but perhaps he feels the force of the other’s glare. Arthur sighs and trails one hand up Francis’ side, touch too gentle against Francis’ sensitive skin. “You agreed to this, remember? And you know how to get what you want.” 

His cruelty and calculation are impressive, for one so young. He’d learned the rules quickly, back when Francis had murmured them against his skin, and now he uses them to his distinct advantage. In order for vampires to gain the most from their prey, they require permission. They cannot enter dwellings without invitation. They cannot touch without consent. And if they want the blood they drink to fill them with life—with a heartbeat and breath, with sensation in their skin and light in their eyes—they must earn the privilege first. 

Francis barters pleasure for life’s blood, and for a while that was enough for Arthur. But tonight, when Francis had come to him, he had set different parameters. Francis had smiled, indulgent as always. A young wizard testing the limits of his strength, his ability to cast wards with only his voice—it had been an amusing thought.

But once again, Francis had forgotten how truly exceptional Arthur is. 

“You know what to do.” Arthur leans forward and lets his words ghost over Francis’ flushed skin. “Make me come.” 

The idea of that is alone to set off sparks deep within Francis, through the already coiling desire he had stopped fighting long ago. He steels himself for a moment, feeling the hot pressure of Arthur within him and wishing the other would just move, even a little.

“Mon coeur,” he murmurs. “Would it not be easier if I could touch you?” 

Arthur leans close again, teeth nipping at the line of Francis’ jaw. The vampire clenches his teeth and whines, consumed by Arthur’s scent. His head dips back dangerously, until Arthur’s hand catches his neck and holds him upright. 

“No,” Arthur returns finally. “That’s too easy on you. You’re too good at that.” 

Francis smirks at that, dizzy though he is with desire. He is very good at what he does—he remembers, vividly, the night he held Arthur against the wall of his bedroom and kissed him for hours, until the wizard was out of breath and sobbing to be touched. Afterwards, he was languid and affectionate, curled in Francis’ lap as the vampire drank deeply from his wrist. 

Come to think of it, this might be a subtle sort of revenge, for that. 

“Prove to me you’re good in other ways,” Arthur whispers darkly. It’s a voice that goes deeper that his usual crabby grousing—it is a voice thick with power, the voice that reminds Francis that he was initially attracted not to those green eyes or the flush on pale skin, but to the power that thrums in Arthur’s veins and fills his blood with something indescribably delicious. 

And oh, Francis could never dismiss a challenge from this man. Though his legs feel weak and his balance is precarious, he moves as best he can. He spreads himself in stilting increments, taking Arthur as deep as he can, before he begins rolling his hips in tantalizing, tight circles around him. 

He grins his pleasure when Arthur breathes out a hitching sigh, trying to keep his composure and failing. One hand tightens on Francis’ hip, and the nails of the other dig into Francis’ neck. He doesn’t mind that—in fact, he enjoys those pricks of pleasure-pain, punctuating the heady blur this night has become. 

Francis leans in for a kiss, screwing himself down on Arthur’s cock, but the other man pulls his face away and denies him that. 

“No,” he says, breathing labored. “No lips, no tongue, no teeth. Not yet.” 

“You’re wicked,” Francis pouts, but he clenches his hands and moves again, guiding Arthur to the spot within him that gives him the most pleasure. He clenches around him, moaning his satisfaction, and his rewarded when Arthur mirrors the sound at a higher, more desperate pitch. 

“You wouldn’t,” Arthur breathes, then groans as Francis moves again, just right. “You wouldn’t stick around if I wasn’t.” His voice is accusatory, even as his eyes go blank for a moment as he’s overcome with sensation. 

Francis tilts his head and considers that—as much as he can consider anything when all he wants his the taste of Arthur on his tongue. He’s wondered for some time, now, how he will keep Arthur. He is covetous creature, and too intelligent for his own good. As soon as he’d fallen for Arthur he’d known that the wizard would perhaps grow old, and certainly die. For a long time, Francis has tried to find a way to save Arthur from that fate, to keep him with Francis forever. He will accept nothing less.

But for the first time he wonders if Arthur has the opposite problem—if he fears that Francis will move on from him, leave him alone in his dingy home in the English countryside with only the rain and his spell books for company. The thought is laughable—Francis couldn’t abandon Arthur even if he wanted to. 

Content in this new knowledge, Francis relaxes against his bonds and Arthur’s hold, and moves with languid slowness against the other man. Up, down, left, right, up and down again. He has trained in dance, and music, and desire and love—he can do this without his hands, without his lips, without his tongue or teeth. 

“Mon coeur,” he whispers, voice is silky and hypnotic. “You do know what it means, when one of my kind says ‘forever?’” 

Arthur’s eyes flash open, green and glowing with magic. He stares at Francis as though he’s searching for the truth of his words, and Francis sees the exact moment when his pupils dilate and his body accepts what his mind won’t, yet—he comes deep inside of Francis, a delayed reaction that leaves him boneless, hands falling away from Francis’ body as he hits the back of his chair.

The silk ribbons fall away from Francis’ hands, their purpose fulfilled. Francis eases himself off of Arthur and presses forward, cradles the other man in his arms as he litters his throat with tiny, biting kisses that have Arthur sighing and squirming beneath him. He cages Arthur in with his limbs and barely feels it as the other man regains enough of himself to reach for Francis’ cock and jack him off with insistent but slow movements. 

Francis spills over Arthur’s hands and their eyes meet—now Arthur is the one hazy and soft, and Francis is sharp and cunning. 

“Puis-je…?” Francis whispers. 

Arthur swallows, and then nods his assent. 

Francis’ lips pull into a wicked smile. He keeps one hand around the back of Arthur’s neck, holding him steady. Then he leans in and finds a pulse point, kissing the spot with reverence as Arthur groans. He can do enough with his lips, but then he begins to lap along the sensitive skin, tongue tracing patterns there. 

But then Francis lets his fangs dig into that skin, and the taste of iron fills his mouth and he groans, deep and overcome. He licks along the spot as he drinks from Arthur, as the other man’s hands come up to brace against his shoulders, fingers digging in against the soft sparks of pain. 

Arthur’s blood is like fire, imbued with magic and passion and made all the sweeter by their complicated agreements and fulfilled promises. Francis counts the moments to a waltz’s rhythm in his head—one two three, un deux trois, one two three. 

He is careful not to take too much, and when he pulls his fangs from Arthur’s body he licks over the wounds so that no precious blood will be spilt. He leaves Arthur sitting upright in the chair and curls around him, legs draped over the arm. 

He feels Arthur’s fingers in his hair, stroking close to his scalp. He closes his eyes and inhales deeply, Arthur’s blood strengthening him and giving him that welcome pulse of artificial life. In his many centuries of existence, he thinks this may be his first moment of true contentment. 

“Did you mean that?” Arthur asks after several moments, still stroking Francis’ hair. 

“Of course. I am a man of my word, Arthur.” Francis sounds haughty and offended, but Arthur will be able to see through that. 

“What are you going to do about it, then?” 

He tilts his head towards Arthur’s hand, and is pleased when Arthur leans down to press his lips against Francis’. They don’t speak for some time, instead focusing on kissing the breath out of one another. Finally Arthur pulls away, looking at Francis expectantly. 

“I don’t know,” Francis admits. His hands curl around Arthur’s wrists, holding on tightly. “Arthur, there’s something I must tell you.”

It’s treason, of course, to discuss the vampire courts’ dealings with a mortal, especially one who has the power to interfere. But for a long time now, Francis has known his own heart. 

“I’ll keep you safe,” Francis says, before he even begins to explain. And a promise between them has never gone unfulfilled.

**Author's Note:**

> Notes on this 'verse will be [here](http://watergeuzen.tumblr.com/tagged/unnecessary-vampire-au).


End file.
